No Such Thing, No Such Thing (The Case of John Watson)
by SilentRain03
Summary: After a case-gone-wrong leaves John wounded, John is forced to deal with the hardships of his resurfaced PTSD while Sherlock deals with equally troubling phenomena. Feelings. With these things in mind, the two are confined in 221B, learning more about themselves and each other than they thought imaginable. All the while keeping each other company, of course. (Expect some slow-burn)
1. One Foot in the Dirt

"Sherlock, it's two in the morning, can't this wait for another time?"

"Oh yes, investigating glowing tombstones would be a much better idea in broad daylight. Wonderful suggestion, John."

"You know what I meant."

Sherlock crouched down in front of the tombstone, it was faded and worn, the shallow etches of a name and day barely visible to the naked eye. Carefully, he traced a finger across the worn-down engravings. At least thirteen people had come to him within the week, each claiming to have seen lights from within the graveyard. Typically experiencing lucid dreams afterward.

"Well?" John asked, impatiently tapping his foot.

Ignoring his partner, Sherlock leaned forward, quickly running his tongue across the rough stone.

"Cool cool, now we're licking. Licking tombstones, in downtown London, at THREE AM!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands above his head.

"It's the moss," Sherlock stood up, putting his gloves back on. "Hallucinogenic. Typically grows in wide-open areas but is prone to be overpowered by other plant life. Possesses a luminous quality to it when paired with just the right conditions but doesn't begin working until a few hours after exposure. Hence why it was the dreams."

"...And you licked it why?"

"Distinct flavour."

John narrowed his eyes at the dark-haired man, then sighed, grudgingly following him out of the graveyard.

"Can I ask?"

"No."

"Alright."

They chuckled, and John stuffed his hands into his pockets. The air was cold, but not overbearing as the wind had died down hours ago. It was only a little over a week until Christmas, Sherlock hadn't had a case in days, and his agonizing boredom had finally come to a head. Therefore, he decided to check out something a little less than exciting.

"So.." John began but was cut off by a buzz from Sherlock's mobile. He raised his eyebrows.

"Whatever you're thinking it's a no, I don't know them. You can go back to the… flat…" Sherlock trailed off as the read the message to himself.

Meet me in the graveyard at 2:24. Come alone.

-AN

"Are you sure?"

John's voice pulled Sherlock from his train of thought.

"Yes," he shoved his phone into the pocket of his trenchcoat. "I'll be right back."

John had only been typing at the computer for twenty minutes before he started to doze off. When it came to cases where he didn't write any notes then and there, he made sure to write everything while it was still fresh in his mind promptly getting home. Of course, an exception to the rare occasions he passed out before-hand. Or was hospitalized. Or drugged. His head had nearly hit the keyboard when the door swung open. He jerked awake.

"What-? I'm awake."

"Of course you are."

Sherlock hung his coat on the top hook of the rack, then trudged over silently to his chair.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

John sighed, closing his laptop.

"You're upset."

"And why would you say that?" Sherlock asked.

"You hung up your coat on the top hook, so that means you plan on leaving fairly soon and quickly, as you can pick up and put it on easier. Since you have no cases, you're most likely going to take a 'thinking walk', which only happens when you're conflicted or unsure. Which, in turn, makes you upset."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, his mouth slightly agape.

"I'm impressed."

"You also look royally pissed, but then again that's a common look for you when you don't have something to solve."

Sherlock sank into his chair, sliding down until the armrests were level with his shoulders.

"Weren't you going to sleep or something? Seemings you spent the whole time complaining."

"After I finish typing this out-"

"John, nobody reads your blog."

"More mine than yours."

"At least mine contains intelligent thought," Sherlock snapped, glaring at John.

John stared for a moment, furrowing his brow.

"What's wrong with you? It's only been three minutes since your last case and you're already-"

"This has nothing to do with that! So please, if you don't mind, I would like to be alone."

John set his mouth in a hard line, standing up.

"Well, talk to me when you aren't acting like a complete git."

As John left the room, he heard Sherlock call out, "Well then I guess we won't be speaking for a while!"

"What is his problem?" he muttered under his breath, walking up the stairs. He was used to Sherlock's outbursts, they were fairly common, to be honest, but recently he hadn't had any until now. Paired with him wandering off alone earlier, it was a definite call to suspicion.

As John stumbled to his room, he sat down on the bed, pondering. He didn't want to openly ask Sherlock about it, as all he would do is deny and ask John if he had anything better to do. As John thought more about it, exhaustion won over, and he eventually fell asleep.


	2. A Light in the Park

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," Sherlock groaned, putting his face into his hands.

Exactly four days ago at 2:24 he met a man in the northwest corner of the graveyard. A man of which he'd never met, who wore a black mask and hood. He seemed to be around the same age as John, give or take a few years. He told Sherlock he knew about his past, his history. Of course, he'd heard it all before and every time it was proven to be untrue so naturally, he didn't believe him.

Then he started telling him things. Things only Sherlock could've known, some things even Mycroft was unaware of. Even worse, he finished his spiel with the words,

"Give me what I want and I won't tell John."

That's when he panicked.

Staying up for days on end, pacing, searching for a way to get out of it. Much to his dismay, he came up empty-handed every time. It was if his thought processes had been clouded, like a thick, sticky fog clinging to the sides of his mind. It nearly drove him insane trying to configure a way of solving it and keeping John out of the loop. He trusted John with his life, but there was no way he would put him in harms way, and for what? A strange man in a mask who just happened to know far too much? Though Sherlock was good at deception, his restless behavior was painfully obvious, which meant that he had to do whatever it took to diminish John's suspicion.

"Sherlock?" John asked, peeking around the corner.

"Mhm?"

John walked in, sitting in the chair opposite from where Sherlock was perched. He crossed his leg and sighed. "Whatever you're hiding, whatever you're not telling me, I think I deserve to know."

Of course, sometimes Sherlock wasn't that good at curbing suspicion either.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock said, keeping his eyes closed. He heard John exhale.

"Yes you do, Sherlock."

"Mmm, nope."

Sherlock opened his eyes his in time to see John stand up, but falter just slightly accompanied by a wince. He furrowed his eyebrows. John seemed to catch on to the look.

"It's... erm..."

"Your leg?"

"Yeah," John admitted quietly. "I know what you're going to say, it's all in your head- get over it-"

"I'm no idiot, John. I know psychosomatic pain is still very real. I'm just concerned because you haven't complained of it for quite a while until now?"

"It just started up again. I don't know why- Sherlock? What are you doing?"

Sherlock sprang up from his chair, throwing on his coat while John spoke. He tucked his phone into his pocket.

"I completely forgot, I agreed to meet a client for tea. Don't wait up for me John, not with your leg and all."

"It's fine, really, I can still go-"

Sherlock cut him off.

"I'm afraid not this time. This client requested a one-on-one, I hope you understand. I shouldn't be long." He said as he gave a quick smile.

"Oh, well alright. I'll be here then I guess." John said, frowning. Then without another word, Sherlock left out the door.

"An oil lamp, how… old fashioned."

Sherlock snickered, standing face to face with the same man as before. Though, this time was different in the sense he had no face covering, revealing a man around thirty-five years old, with a square face and grey stubble popping out across his chin and mouth.

"What can I say? I'm a sucker for retro."

He bent down, carefully setting the lamp on the grass.

"I must say, Mr. Holmes, I'm honored you came to meet me here. Although, people surely do crazy things to hide their past."

"What do you want? Money? Artifacts? I don't have all night," Sherlock said impatiently.

"Oh," The side of the man's mouth quirked up. "I want something much more valuable than that."

"What is it then?" Sherlock crossed his arms, glaring. Quite frankly, he was annoyed. Why criminals always had to be so mysterious was beyond him, all he knew was that it wasted time.

"John Watson."

"What?"

"You heard me. I want John Watson back."

Back? Sherlock, still confused, eyed the man carefully.

"He isn't here, you told me to come alone, do you remember that?"

He laughed.

"You really don't know John at all, do you?"

Something shifted near the edge of the woods, just out of the reach of the lamp. John stepped into the ring of light.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" He asked slowly, looking at Sherlock, then to the other man. His face then shifted, from a look of surprise to what could only be described as shock.

"Randall?"

Sherlock looked between the two men. He should've known John would follow him. "You know him?"

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I did. What are you doing here? You were in prison last I heard."

Randall chuckled dryly.

"On parole. I have to laugh- my officer really does not look closely at what he drinks. Hello, John."

With no segue, his face contorted from amusement to a sinister look. It sent chills down Sherlock's spine.

"I'm touched you remember me, it's been so long. I wrote to you, I called you, you never responded to me..." He said, taking a step toward John.

Sherlock took a step forward, placing himself between the two.

"The war changed you, you know? You ignored me. I sat alone for months, you never called back! You were my friend!"

Randall now was becoming hysterical. He reached into his coat, pulling out a pistol.

"That's why I'm giving you ten seconds to run. Not because I'm nice, but because I love a good chase."

"Run," John said, stumbling backward. "Move!"

Just like that the two broke into a dead sprint out of the park, behind them Randall counted loudly

"Nine! Eight!"

They turned the corner, running out onto the street. Sherlock couldn't help but notice there were no cars.

"Three! Two! One! Ready or not!"

Sherlock looked behind him and saw Randall catching up to them at an almost un-human like speed. Then saw John barely keeping up behind him. That's when he realized.

His leg.

A gunshot reverberated through the desolate street. With his ears ringing, and vision off focus, Sherlock saw John fall to the ground, skidding across the pavement. At first, he thought he had only tripped- until he realized what he had just heard. At that moment, a scream exploded from Sherlock's lungs, louder than he had ever yelled.

"JOHN!"

…

It all came back at once. Everything.

He felt the impact of the cement before he realized what had happened. His vision clouded, a muffled buzzing resonated through his ears, then the memories flooded in. Him laying on the ground, the screams, the pain . Oh god, the pain. He tried to scream, to let out the emotions, but all that came out was a series of gasps.

Calm down, calm down this is what almost got you killed then, he told himself sternly.

He wrung his eyes shut. He could hear something, was it yelling? He couldn't differentiate between what was real and what his brain was bringing back. He also couldn't breathe properly, which certainly didn't make matters any better. Was that Sherlock he heard?

Open your eyes!

He forced his eyes open, the first thing he saw was the distant fuzzy lights from the street lamps. Then he saw Sherlock, a gun pointed behind him. He was yelling- no, screaming. At who?

He situated his arms underneath him, feebly attempting to prop himself up. The pain was much more real now, life fire spreading from his leg across his body. He needed to say something, anything. He almost made it upright.

"Sherlock!"

He felt a foot, heavy, kick him in the square of his back spending him sprawling toward the other. He hit the pavement again, harder this time. Everything went black, but he could still hear voices. His body refused to cooperate, rendering him immobile. Two hands reached under his arms, lifting him up. The pain brought him back, just enough for him to cry out in pain.

"It's ok, you're ok," a voice told him. It was soft, comforting. Was it Sherlock? No, it couldn't be.

If he could've he would turn around, but the darkness took hold of him again, this time pulling him in completely.

The last thing he heard was the sirens.


	3. Senti-Mentality

If you would've told John Watson that Sherlock Holmes stayed next to his bedside for days on end, never even leaving for a moment- not even to go outside- he would've called you insane.

When he woke up, harsh white light filtered through his eyes as he attempted to open them. He was sore no doubt but compared to the white, icy pain that had shot through his leg earlier this was absolute heaven. He turned his head over lazily, more than likely groggy from whatever meds he was on. His eyes focused on a dark mass curled up in the chair next to him. He couldn't help but smile.

"Sherlock?" His throat was scratchy, the words barely making it out in one piece.

The mass stirred for a moment, then a bed-ridden head poked out from underneath a trench coat.

"John, glad to see you awake," Sherlock said, promptly standing up. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit, if I'm being honest," John chuckled, sitting up slightly. "But Deja Vu more than anything."

Sherlock nodded his head, looking down.

"Sorry."

"What?"

Sherlock looked up, confused. John looked equally so.

"Sorry? That's… that's what one is supposed to say in a situation like this, is it not?"

"Not really, I should be thanking you if anything." John sighed, laying back down on the bed. "I wouldn't have made it out of there if it weren't for you."

Sherlock furrowed his brows, likely uncertain of what to say to the comment. John continued.

"I gather I'm not best at handling being shot."

"Who is?"

John nodded his head, yawning.

"I think you're due for a few more hours of sleep," Sherlock noted. "They gave you some pretty heavy medication, probably for your…"

John wasn't completely sure whether Sherlock had trailed off, or he fell asleep. Either way, he dozed off immediately.

…

After John had been released to go home, he had promptly fallen asleep upstairs, not bothering to do much. The hospital released him with a leg brace and a pair of crutches, which he hated with a burning passion, therefore he refused to use them. Naturally, that meant he couldn't move a whole lot, but he was stubborn. When he had finally woken up, he yawned, rubbing his eyes.

"Good evening, glad to see you're still alive," Sherlock said from across the room.

"Evening? Bloody hell- what time is it?"

"Seven Twenty Five, I was almost certain you had passed away in that chair."

John groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Two and a half days."

John sat up, now suddenly alert. Two and a half days? How was that even possible? Sherlock read his face, as he walked back to his chair and sat down.

"Two and a half days and I'm still exhausted."

Sherlock had pulled a book off the shelf and was flipping through pages, not looking up.

"In most cases, too much sleep can easily have the same effect as too little. In yours, however, I believe some other factors were to blame."

John furrowed his brows, "Other factors?"

"John, can you hand me that pen? It's right next to your chair."

John reached over, picking up the fountain pen sitting on the stand. "Sure, but what-"

He cut himself off, realizing he was in a completely different location. He tossed the pen to Sherlock, then sank back down.

"How?"

"I was too lazy to keep going up and down the stairs, so I brought you down here. I hope you don't mind."

With each explanation, John became increasingly more and more confused.

"Why were you going up and down so much?"

Sherlock closed his book and sighed. John gathered he was trying to avoid whatever he was about to say.

"You were screaming John. A lot. Crying too, thrashing- I thought you were dying at some points if I'm being completely honest."

John's ears went pink. Sherlock continued.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson was losing her mind, she was getting about as much sleep as you were, so while you were half-awake I led you down here and you've seemed to be doing a lot better. You're welcome."

John opened then closed his mouth, trying to come up with something to say. Quite frankly, he was embarrassed. He hadn't had nightmares in a long time, until now apparently.

"Oh, I noticed you haven't been using those crutches, so I dug this out,"

He withdrew an object from behind the chair, holding it out. His cane. He stared at the object blankly.

"You kept it?"

"Well yes- of course. Handy for hitting people, squashing bugs, and unclogging toi-"

"Right, right I get it," John chuckled, grabbing the object from Sherlock's hand. "Thanks. You know, if I didn't know any better I'd say you kept it as a little memento."

John burst out laughing as Sherlock doubled over and gagged audibly.

"Never, _ever_ say that again."

John laughed again. "So, any new leads on cases I've missed?"

"On what?"

John stopped laughing, looking at Sherlock quizzically.

"You know, cases? The thing your life revolves around?"

"Not really, no."

"Have you even had a new one since-?"

John deducted from Sherlock's expression he hadn't.

"You… you've been turning them down, haven't you?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "So what if I had? Someone needed to make sure Mrs. Hudson didn't lose her marbles over the past few days. And make sure you wouldn't fall out of the bed again."

"I'm… honored?"

Sherlock hummed, taking out a book again. One of John's medical books, to be exact. He was about to mention it when he noticed the dark look clouding over his face.

"What?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

" I know that look," John said knowingly. "What is it?"

"Theoretically, if I were to tell you to pack up your stuff and leave, what would you say?"

"Sherlock…"

"That I would rather work alone from now on, and arrange other housing for you, how would you respond to that?"

" Sherlock, stop, you're scaring me-"

"Maybe even leave you with some extra cash, just to help out-"

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. Sherlock stopped, looking up. John couldn't hide the fact there were tears in his eyes, and there was no doubt in his mind Sherlock saw them too.

"Please," he said, his voice breaking. Sherlock's face softened.

"I'm sorry, God, I'm sorry John I didn't mean- I didn't mean for this to happen!"

He stood up, putting his hands on his head.

"But look at you! You're hurt, your PTSD is back, you're miserable because of me and that… that's not right. It's not right you deserve better than this and we both know it!

"Oh come now- you know that isn't true!"

"Yes, it is!" Sherlock yelled, momentarily stopping his pacing. "Contrary to popular belief, I actually don't enjoy putting people in danger."

"And I don't enjoy being treated like a child, yet here we are!"

"That's surprising, considering you're acting like one!" Sherlock snapped.

"Really?!" John yelled, going to stand up. Naturally forgetting that he had a wounded leg. He yelped, falling to the ground.

"John-!"

John laid on the ground quietly, holding himself up with his forearms. He stared at the ground, feeling a mixture of emotions well up as he breathed heavily.

"Hey," Sherlock said softly. The same voice he used trying to calm John down all those nights ago.

John looked up and saw him holding out his hand. He considered for a moment, he considered being stubborn and refusing but realized there was no way he could get up on his own. Almost grudgingly, he accepted the offer. Sherlock gripped his arm and placed another just under his other to pull him up.

"Thanks," John said quietly, sitting back down. He heard Sherlock sigh heavily.

"The last thing I want is to lose you as my partner, John. I just can't handle this feeling of guilt about what happened."

"If it's any consolation, it was my decision to go out there," John said smiling weakly. "You tried to stop me."

Sherlock half smiled, taking his seat.

"We're both acting like children, I think."

John nodded his head, chuckling.

"Yeah, but are you really surprised?"

John and Sherlock sat for hours, talking. Something they hadn't done virtually ever, besides the times where they were wasted. It was funny, John couldn't even deny that he enjoyed it. Judging by Sherlock's attempt to keep the conversation going time after time- he'd have to say he couldn't either.


End file.
